


Slow Progress

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Sherstrade, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns, he's still suffering from the days-weeks-months of torture and captivity. He can't turn to John Watson for help, but Lestrade has already seen him through worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/gifts).



> From Tumbr, it started with Impishtubist posting:
> 
> "Okay, but let’s talk about Sherlock coming back from the hiatus with unhealed injuries from his torture sessions, and he startles at sudden noises and has nightmares. Let’s talk about suffering!Sherlock, because suffering!Sherlock is the best Sherlock."
> 
> To which I reply:

It wasn’t the light touch to his hair and forehead that woke him. Nor was it the sounds of dishes in the sink, the television being turned on and quickly being muted, or the thousand of other little noises that came with everyday life. What woke him— caused him to sit bolt upright, eyes wide, alert, taking in every potential threat in the small space; heart hammering in his chest as fear and anxiety sparked through him and a thousand little phantom pains burned into his memory flashed through his mind. 

It was the click of the kettle. 

"Hey, hey;" Sherlock jerked away from the broad figure suddenly next to him. Ready to push, punch, kick, and run. "Easy, sunshine. You’re okay. You’re safe."

All at once the realization of where he was, who was speaking hit him, and Sherlock drew in a long, shuddering breath as he forced his mind to acknowledge Lestrade’s words rather than focus on the presence that was just a little too close for comfort. 

"I’m fine." It was snapped, hurried, Humiliated at his weakness. 

Lestrade rested back on his heels, having knelt by the sofa when Sherlock snapped to attention— ready to do whatever he could to keep the younger man from hurting himself in the moment of panic. Now, with Sherlock awake— properly awake— and knowing him well enough to know that open discussion would not be welcomed, Lestrade smiled. “Then let’s get you some tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was a learning process. There were no more quick touches or pats on the shoulder. He didn’t approach from behind without a constant stream of chatter. He didn’t grab or grip Sherlock’s wrists or forearm. He didn’t push or press down on Sherlock’s shoulders— didn’t make sure he sat in a certain chair, or keep him in a closed room longer than necessary. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was easier to judge the signs of stress on Sherlock. 

It didn’t change much, really. Sherlock had always been a bit of a wild thing people couldn’t quite handle. 

The first time Lestrade saw the scars was after a case. He was at Baker Street, setting out food while Sherlock cleaned up, and caught a glimpse of a badly healed wound that crossed Sherlock’s ribs as he pulled on an old t-shirt. They sat and ate and fought over case notes before Lestrade found a moment he needed. A quiet pause in the meal and work, with Sherlock scribbling his notes on the case in the margins of the report. There were jagged, rough marks cut into his wrists— cut by metal chains or rough ropes; he couldn’t tell with the little glances he could safely steal. A slight bend to Sherlock’s knee that reminded him of a painful break he once had in his youth. 

There would be more. He knew that there would be more. 

"Can I see them?"

He thought he would be used to seeing just how quickly Sherlock could shut him out now. “No.”

"How bad was it?"

"You’ve been tolerable all day, Lestrade. Don’t be an idiot now."

He wouldn’t press again. He didn’t want to push Sherlock into silence. 

It was nearly a month later when he was woken in the dead of night by Sherlock breaking into his sitting room. It had been a long wet, ddreary day, with the biggest case of imprisonment and torture and kidnapping Lestrade had come across in years. They had broken it with Sherlock’s help— found a basement full of terrified young men and women who had been promised jobs as maids and janitors, but sold into slavery instead. Sherlock had left the scene before the victims were freed, and Lestrade had helped where he could as they were passed off into the care of people better equipped to deal with the trauma. 

The younger man was dripping on his kitchen tile, making tea, when Lestrade dragged himself out of bed to scold him for not using the spare key. He barely got passed the door before Sherlock spoke. 

"I need to talk."


	3. Chapter 3

There were good days. Days when Sherlock was himself— smiling, laughing, engaged. They usually happened around cases, visits with the Watsons, games and teasing with Mycroft, and new experiments. It was almost like before; the rough edges of Sherlock smoothed out and Lestrade loved them. Those days when he might head into Molly’s lab with a case, and find Sherlock bent over a microscope or desk with his work in hand. Or when he’d take the stair of Baker Street two at a time to the notes of Sherlock composing.

There were bad days. Days where Sherlock got lost in his waking nightmares. Hours spent staring into nothing as he walked through his own mind and Lestrade couldn’t reach him. Bad days where the Work was neglected or destroyed on the kitchen table, the flat was silent, and food left to go cold. These were days when Lestrade would get a call from Mrs. Hudson— “just look in on him? I hate to pester you, but he needs some company.”— or a text from John— “snowed under at work. Check in on SH? He isn’t answering me. JW”

It was on a bad day that Lestrade once grabbed Sherlock’s wrist to draw him out of his mind and ended up with a black eye and a consulting detective in a panic attack. It was a bad day that he sat for hours with Sherlock as the man broke down— unable to delete the memories of torture from his mind, and felt forced to relive them. It was a bad day that Lestrade learnt just how strong a man Sherlock was— in the snippets of information he could draw out of the man, Sherlock was always quick to ‘reassure’ him that his captors never once got important information from him.

But it was a good day that he learnt the stories behind the scars. As they lounged after a meal and case on the ancient sofa in Baker Street, Lestrade gently traced the marks on Sherlock’s skin as the man provided a place and mission outline. It was a good day when Lestrade learnt that he had been a target Sherlock had ‘died’ to protect. It was on a good day, walking through the park back to Baker Street, that Sherlock took his hand and told him (a very mild version) of the events in Serbia.

It was on a good day that Sherlock told him that their kisses needed to be catalogued.

And it was on a bad day that Sherlock demanded samples from that catalogue— because kisses 15 and 35 were tender things that could draw him back to reality.

Good day or bad day, Lestrade was happy to oblige.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Easy, sunshine. It’s okay. You’re safe. They aren’t here."_

Touching Sherlock during a nightmare never helped. It would spark a reaction that could set the man back weeks in his progress through whatever traumas he still remembered. Lestrade knew better than to do anything as stupid as restrain the man when he was pleading in his sleep against ropes and chains and beatings. He seemed to respond positively to a calm voice, nonsense soothing words, and plenty of space. Lestrade wasn’t so far gone (or naïve) to think that it was his voice alone that soothed Sherlock through the memories that surfaced when he couldn’t control them. He supposed the calming reaction would have been the same for anyone the injured man trusted.

_"It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ve got you, sunshine."_

But it was never quick enough to keep his heart from breaking with every small plea that passed through Sherlock’s lips. Lestrade could only watch, sitting on the edge of the bed, blankets pulled away from his writhing lover, as nightmares twisted that oh-so-clever mind. He could only mutter nonsense at the distressed man until he calmed again, or woke.

_"It’s over, Sher. You’re safe."_

Sherlock was not meant to suffer like this.

_"It’s okay, I’ve got you. Please, Sherlock."_

It had been worse in the beginning— when Sherlock had just come back, when they didn’t have whatever this was between them. When Sherlock was still too wounded to seek out sleep alone, and John was still furious enough to stay away. When Sherlock would break into Lestrade’s home and curl up on the sofa, where Lestrade would find him in the morning— wrecked by nightmares and jumping at shadows until his persona could be rebuilt for the day.

_"Please, Sher, I’m right here for you."_

There was no easy way to suggest therapy to Sherlock. Not without sending him into a sulk, or facing himself being locked out until Sherlock’s trust in him was slowly rebuilt; but Lestrade wanted to help. He couldn’t take seeing Sherlock suffer through these bad nights; he couldn’t stand to think about what must have happened to keep Sherlock from seeking easy comfort.

_"Shhh. They aren’t here, sunshine. I’ve got you."_

In the face of nightmares that never seemed to ease, and the phantom pains that sometimes had Sherlock curl in on himself in the early morning after a bad night, Lestrade felt helpless.

_"C’mon, sunshine. Easy, easy."_

Muttering nonsense at a monster he couldn’t fight until it released the man he had finally managed to have back.

_"I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here."_

When the pleading and whimpers stopped, when the body tight with fear and stress finally relaxed into a deeper sleep, Lestrade would crawl back into bed. The covers would stay bundled at the foot of the bed, lest they remind Sherlock of being restrained. The soft litany of calming nonsense would continue, even as Sherlock stopped responding.

_"There you go. It’s over now."_

It was the that Lestrade would carefully thread their fingers together. Light, testing touches, to remind himself that Sherlock was there. Sherlock was safe. And though his heart broke with every bad dream and bad day, and the absolute certainty that he could not just gather his lover close and soothe him through the worst with soft touches and a tight embrace, Lestrade kept hold of the younger man’s hand until dawn.

_"I’ve got you."_

He would grip the thin hand in his own, wishing he could do more. And fall asleep still muttering against Sherlock’s pain.

_"I’ve got you, love."_

It would be a good day, when he woke to find Sherlock gripping his hand tightly beneath the blankets. Quicksilver eyes examining him as he woke.

_"Mornin’, sunshine."_


	5. Chapter 5

There were triggers. Of course there were triggers. And like with every trauma Lestrade had ever read about or come across, the triggers were rarely predictable. What he expected to cause Sherlock to shut down or react violently usually turned out to be fine (for a while. Lestrade had also learnt that different moods meant that a whole new set of stimuli could trigger different reactions).

Crime scenes and photos of victims rarely caused Sherlock to pause. Though there was one time Lestrade found Sherlock comparing his scars with the photos of a victim who had been bound in chains, the younger man just told him that it was an analysis of the variations. From that, he had been able to deduce the make, size, and exact binding method used on the victim and led to the arrest of a weekend sadist who held a day job at a DIY shop in the suburbs.

But a passing phrase that came up in a testimony, report, or conversation could have Sherlock so wound up that he’d be clawing at nightmare bonds in a few hours— if he slept at all that day. A tug of his hair, a tone of voice, a remark about needing to get some sleep— Lestrade thought once that he could try to keep track of it all.

"It doesn’t work that way." John once said over a watery coffee and packet of crisps— waiting in the corridor while Sherlock and Molly went about their business in a lab. "Sometimes there’s just nothing definite. Some assault survivors can be triggered by a tone of voice. Some soldiers can freak out over a child playing in a park. It’s different for everyone."

Lestrade had been hesitant to take any advice from John about Sherlock’s mental health after he had drawn out the story of Sherlock’s return and the following fight. But he trusted a medical opinion enough to do some research.

There were days when distraction techniques helped. Sherlock could be set on a new path when one got too dark; an intentionally thick question about evidence usually did the trick. Or a firm reminder that the flat was a safe haven— Baker Street was ‘home’ and safe, and Lestrade had found himself slowly moving things and mementos from his own place over as a kind of security blanket for Sherlock’s frequent insomnia. Sometimes a full stomach and a lazy night in would be enough to soothe away bad dreams.

But even in those calm moments, Lestrade had found triggers. Resting after a meal on the sofa, he could loosely hold Sherlock close, but a touch or word could have Sherlock up and across the room. Or checking the locks and windows. Or refusing to sleep unless the bed was pushed to a corner.

There were always going to be triggers. Lestrade understood that. He understood that there was no logic to all of them, and some could never be obvious. He understood that Sherlock dealt with his anxiety in different ways— from indulging his own compulsions to a chaotic order, to spending hours writing out music but never touching the violin.

Lestrade understood that there was nothing to guard against the trauma that had already happened. He could only be there as often as possible, for when Sherlock needed to be drawn out of his hell again.

He understood the nature of recovery and anxiety and pain. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t exhausted.


	6. Chapter 6

There were words that he was tired of hearing. Phrases from Sherlock that needed to stop. The apologies only happened when they were alone, in 221B or Lestrade’s own flat— only when they were safe somewhere that could be called home.

They were never said too loudly, or too obviously. When Sherlock first returned, first came to him in his own way, Lestrade thought that it was some guilt left over from the reconciliation with John. Some reminder that he had hurt others. At the time he had done everything he could think of to make sure Sherlock knew that he had been forgiven for the lie.

Then he once found a Sherlock in a near panic over waking up alone. On a ‘Good Day’, that kind of surprise could just mean a good sulk for a few hours. It first happened on a ‘Bad Day’, when perceptive, clever Sherlock saw Leatrade’s exhaustion from a bad night of soothing nightmares and mistook it for frustration that recovery was slow.

He hadn’t expected Lestrade to have just popped out for the shopping.

He hadn’t expected Lestrade to return.

Lestrade had never been so surprised as to hear the broken, soft “Greg…” come from Sherlock when he rushed to check for injury.

The soft phrases came more frequently on bad days. Or after days or a week apart from work. They came when Sherlock didn’t want to be touched, or looked at, or heard. They came on bad days after a harsh work or a deduction Sherlock later deemed ‘not good’ based on Lestrade’s reaction. The apologies came after long nights of nightmares, or when Sherlock felt compelled to try to scrub away the scars.

They came when Lestrade would catch shaking hands, or draw Sherlock’s attention away from whatever memory haunted him.

Lestrade hated hearing the soft apologies. He hated knowing that there was nothing he could do to break the habit now. He could only wait it out.

"Nothing to apologize for, sunshine."


	7. Chapter 7

"That’s it, sunshine." Lestrade crouched in front of the hard plastic chair, one hand on Sherlock’s knee, the other raised and gently pressed against Sherlock’s eyes. "Good lad. Just breathe for me. One… Two…"

With a shuddering breath, Sherlock finished the count. It was a well-practiced routine, the slow count to four, Lestrade counting the beats while Sherlock held his breath to get it back. To calm down. To stop the panic response to run— which would only make it worse. Which could cause Sherlock to end up in hospital— and Lestrade wasn’t yet his emergency contact.

"Breathe, sunshine. Just a deep breathe for me."

They didn’t know what the trigger was. There was nothing about this case— no torture, no real violence yet. Just a handful of thefts and blackmail that could turn ugly if not stopped. Lestrade had noticed the signs before Sherlock. Pulled Sherlock to his office. Locked the door despite the prying eyes.

He kept his hand over Sherlock’s eyes: the only invasive contact they found that could block out any triggering stimuli while not making the situation worse. Slowly, as Sherlock’s breathing normalized, Lestrade started to draw his hand away. “Better?”

Sherlock nodded, taking another deep breath before allowing his body to relax again. “I’m fine.”

"Course you are. But let’s get you something to drink, yeah? Something warm."

"If you say tea—"

"Great little cafe does a good latte down the street. Puts some kind of fancy honey in everything."

Sherlock smiles— it’s weak, and sad, but still a smile, and Lestrade will take it. “I’ll go get your coat, sunshine. It’ll be a minute, yeah?”

At the nod of approval, Lestrade left the office and moved to face his team and John. There was no way to deny that Sherlock was not well, that there had been a trigger in a perfectly safe case, that there was something wrong that might keep him from the Work.

But Lestrade would fight them all if they tried to keep him from letting Sherlock get out of his mind through these cases.

Sally, not John, was the first to approach. But only by about half a second, and only because she had already grabbed the ridiculous coat from where it had been left near interrogation. “What can we do?”


	8. Chapter 8

He didn’t find out the truth of the matter until months later. Sprawled together on top of the blankets of Sherlock’s bed, happy to just be in the grip of a very good day after a very strange case. Sherlock had gone to Mycroft at some point between closing the latest case (a series of seemingly unrelated murders that turned out to be a panicked dealer killing clientele when it became obvious that he was getting caught in a net), and meeting at Baker Street for dinner. Classified files, with heavy black redaction marks covering entire paragraphs, had been delivered with the curry Sherlock had picked up.

"Molly knew?"

The first of the files, the ones Sherlock had placed out for him, detailed the plan against Moriarty. Pieces were missing, and it amused Lestrade to no end to think that there was some poor clerk somewhere in Mycroft’s employ who had to try to translate a Holmesian plot into a more vulgar language. Should the matter ever be brought before whomever was higher on the food chain than Mycroft (Lestrade suspected actual spies were involved). But the first of the stories featured a profile and testimony from Molly Hooper.

Sherlock nodded, already correcting files that would come later— ones that a Lestrade wanted to take away from him and bury somewhere where Sherlock could finally try to really forget about what they detailed. “She was essential. Didn’t hug me though.”

"What?"

"Neither did Mrs. Hudson, come to think if it."

"What do you mean, sunshine?"

"When I came back." Sherlock crossed out an entire paragraph of text. "You hugged me."

“‘Course I did. What else would I do?”

"John punched me."

Lestrade had to take a moment to process that. He had known that John hadn’t reacted well to the whole thing, but to— With what he knew now, Lestrade moved. He shifted upright, taking the files from Sherlock to make it clear that he wanted to understand now that the facts had been laid bare.

"Sherlock, you know they were happy to see you."

"Of course. Though out of the three who Moriarty targeted, only you seemed relieved to see me again." At Lestrade’s confusion, Sherlock reached for the file that had been set aside. "Or have you not reached the part about the snipers?"

He nearly startled when Lestrade caught his wrist. It was instinct, and it forced him to stop, to take in the posture of the person who had grabbed him. In the past— just weeks ago— even a well-intentioned grab for his wrist would have sent Sherlock into his defensive responses. But now, relaxed, after having done so well, he could only stare at Lestrade as he tried to process the idea that someone he trusted had just sought to bind him.

The hand was gone in an instant, but the damage was done. Lestrade moved to put some distance— just a few feet— between them, and he slowly, deliberately reached up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. It was a distraction gesture that had worked before. Though now he had to keep his voice steady when he spoke again.

"Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

Coming back to himself, Sherlock sat back, moved to the edge of the bed. “I’m fine.”

"You know I’m happy to have you back, right?"

"Obviously."

"No, Sherlock. I need to hear it. You understand that, right? You understand that I know what you did, I was hurt by it, but I’m happy you’re home."

Sherlock hesitated, eyes moving quickly as he judged whatever he needed to to understand Lestrade. There was no anger like John’s, no relief or seemingly mindless jubilation like Mrs. Hudson. There was just the same honesty that Sherlock had come to expect, and seek out.

"You were happy to see me. Though you did call me a bastard."

"You are a bastard, sunshine." Relieved, pleased that Sherlock understood that he was genuinely wanted, Lestrade held out a hand in invitation. He kissed the unruly, bed-ruffled hair when Sherlock was back in his arms. "But I love you, you bastard."

"Obvious, Greg."


	9. Chapter 9

"Do we need to talk?"

It was rare for John to be around NSY without Sherlock. Rarer still for it to be during office hours when there was no case actually on. Lestrade knew that Sherlock was at home— having texted Lestrade not an hour ago for another bout of advice for a speech he wasn’t prepared to write.

At the tap to his door and John already stepping in, Lestrade decided that he could spare a few moments. “Do we?”

It had been a few weeks since Sherlock accepted the post of best man. Weeks of Lestrade sat with him to keep him away from the panicked doubt that a mistake had been made. Even now, certain that Sherlock was properly distracted with a project about cauterization, Lestrade still worried that he would come back to see that doubt that slowly are away at Sherlock.

Even now, between stories of Sherlock’s return, the evidence of Sherlock’s fear that John was still angry with him, and the repeated doubt that he couldn’t do his friend justice with this speech, a Lestrade really had no desire to speak with John.

"Look," John took the seat opposite the desk, at ease in the office; "I get that you’re protective of Sherlock now that he’s back. But you keep—"

Lestrade was not in the mood to hear this. He was exhausted, bitter, and still confused as to why Sherlock hadn’t just gave John exactly what he got— clearly Sherlock was capable of self-defense. “Do you know why I’m protective of him, John?”

"He’s just come back; I understand it. I do. But he’s a grown man."

"With PTSD. Who’s been tortured and on the run for two years; taking down the people who threatened us."

"I get it."

"Do you?" Lestrade looked John over, taking in every little detail he could see. He might not be as good as Sherlock, but he had learnt a few things, and he wasn’t blinded to John’s nature the way Sherlock was. He could see the anger just under the surface— John’s temper rolling beneath a far too calm exterior. In his experience, John could be a very dangerous man if it weren’t for the dedication to a normal appearance. When he spoke next, it was a statement: "You understand why he had to do it, and you’re still angry at him."

John clenched his teeth and fist, and Lestrade saw the soldier looking for a fight in those eyes. “You weren’t there, Greg. You didn’t have to see it. You didn’t have to watch the whole thing.”

"I didn’t get to say goodbye."

It was a split second change— the shock overriding the anger. Lestrade took the opening he saw to press on.

"I had to hear it from the responders. The body they used was already processed and collected by the time I got to the morgue. I was in the middle of a disciplinary hearing. So, yeah, you were forced to watch, but if it had been real… Just… Fuck off, John."

"I didn’t think, Greg—"

"No, you didn’t. And you didn’t think when you hit him." It was a bit satisfying to see the surprise cross John’s features, Lestrade would admit. "If you ever assault him again, I’ll make sure charges are pressed. Understand?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reassurance that I don't character bash; I like John as a balance and cohort to Sherlock, but I think he has a very dark part of his character that needs to be developed and explored.


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade had an old record player, and a handful of old records. Rare things that came out in limited runs, that could technically be sold to any number of local collectors for a rent-paying amount, if he ever felt the need. The collection was built upon the core of his punk days, gathered and saved through the years as he grew and it became less about the latest sound and more about the nostalgia of his old heroes.

More recently, some classic had been added in. Orchestra and individual renditions of composers Lestrade had never fancied in his youth. Even now, he never listened to them unless Sherlock was around. Something about the familiar string pieces calmed Sherlock through the worst.

Lestrade could hear the full movement of Sherlock’s favourite waltz as he climbed the steps to his own flat. Neighbours be damned— they had dealt with worse noise during the marriage-ending arguments Lestrade used to have; this was a bad enough sign.

Sherlock was curled on the sofa, lost in the movement and beneath the light blanket nicked from the bed. He only watched with wary, sad eyes as Lestrade turned down the volume after shrugging out of his coat.

"I was looking for you, sunshine." The jacket worn to the wedding was discarded with the coat. "You didn’t check your texts."

A thin hand slipped out from under the blanket, phone gripped tight. “Oh.”

Careful, calm, Lestrade offered his hand to Sherlock. “I didn’t get my dance.”

"But we’re not at the wedding. You left too."

"Doesn’t mean we can’t dance now, sunshine." It took a moment, locked in this tableau— hand out in invitation, clear eyes uncertain— before Sherlock unfolded himself from under the blanket and took the offer.


	11. Chapter 11

John didn’t actually know what he expected. He hadn’t thought of Sherlock as a soldier, wounded in battle. He hadn’t seen his friend as a freed prisoner, just returned home after a months’ long captivity in enemy territory. He hadn’t considered that a Sherlock would actually suffer through “proper” PTSD like he had seen friends and other soldiers do.

But he thought about it. It was easy enough to say the words ‘Sherlock is sick’, and understand that Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson had every right to be protective and angry with him.

But that didn’t mean he saw it as the same thing. Hearing the words and acknowledging the terms didn’t mean that he accepted them.

To John, Sherlock couldn’t be hurt.

At least, not until he had grabbed Sherlock’s wrist to examine it. He had seen the scars— marks left by infection from rusty links cut into tender skin, where it hurt and was easily damaged. It was the first time he had actually seen them.

So he helped himself. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist with a glib remark. And less than four seconds later he had been floored. He hadn’t even registered the punch until he saw Sherlock’s panicked look and felt Mary throwing him out of the room.

He didn’t register his own anger at being hit. He didn’t register the soft noises Mary was making to Sherlock. All he could register was just how scared his best friend had looked.

Sherlock was scared. Scared of him.

He had seen Lestrade and Mary grab Sherlock like that before, and Mrs. Hudson seemed to have free reign to touch and hug and hold Sherlock as she wanted. But he had gotten a punch to the face. He had scared Sherlock.

The idea drained all anger from him. Hollowed him out as the realization clicked into place; as he understood Lestrade’s anger and Molly’s wariness around him.

It was a long while before he went back into the sitting room. The past months replaying in his mind with a certain detachment that came with a void of emotion. With the realization that he was a crap friend.

Mary had a blanket around Sherlock— the hideous orange thing that had been saved as a reminder— and her arm around him. She was talking at him, a steady stream of pregnancy information that seemed to just was over Sherlock and calm him. She said that it was much to early to feel any movement, and they’d get copies of the ultrasound for him.

During her chatter, she beckoned John closer, her eyes those of a nurse evaluating two patients who might cause trouble.

John couldn’t smile. He couldn’t force it this time. Not even as he crouched in front of Sherlock and saw, with fresh eyes, the damage that had been done. But before he could speak, he heard a voice like Sherlock’s, but not. His Sherlock didn’t speak this softly, this broken. This scared.

"I’m sorry."

Sherlock did not apologize like this.

John stayed where he was, shocked, sad, and humiliated with himself for missing all this. For ignoring all this. “Don’t be. I deserved it.”


	12. Chapter 12

It should have been raining. It should have been dawn, or dusk, or the middle of the night. It should have been a Bad Day, or preceded by some terrible new trigger that made everything so much worse. It should have been built up by something.

It was the first time Lestrade had gotten the chance to watch Sherlock sleep without his usual security of a t-shirt and pyjamas.

It shouldn’t been as deep a sleep as it was. It should have been that Sherlock was uncomfortable, likely to wake at any moment, at the slightest change in the room.

Lestrade should have been scared to touch him.

Instead, he ran a hand along the long, thin scars that crossed Sherlock’s back and sides. He could feel each way the man’s ribs hadn’t healed properly, the thick, rough tissue of scars healed over scars.

It was the first time he had been able to so freely examine the damage, and it killed him. Sherlock should not trust people as much as he does. Lestrade didn’t think he would be able to.

He fixated on Sherlock’s wrists, gently tracing the pattern cut there. Places where links bit into flesh and tore with each jerk. With each attempt to escape whatever was happening, the injuries would have only become worse.

Lestrade felt sick; his mind conjured up the images presented by the evidence, and he had to let go. He had to cover Sherlock up again.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to wake as the blanket was tucked around him.

"Are you okay?"

The answer caught in Lestrade’s throat. He wasn’t. He wasn’t okay, and he wasn’t even the one to have lived through the torture.


	13. Chapter 13

When he went out with his team and friends, or ran into Molly, he refused to talk about Sherlock. It wasn’t a new habit, he had always tried to keep some aspect of his love live private. He preferred not to seek out advice from others, or let someone know when he had a rough patch going. He preferred not to burden others.

Instead, he talked about a greater variety of things. Football and frustration with bureaucracy at work, foods and media, and some if the gossip that went around. He mediated the fights and snags between his team, and calmed his friends. When he stopped by to check on Phil, he would pointedly refuse to acknowledge any questions asked about Sherlock, and instead turned it around to ask after Phil’s new hobbies.

Lestrade was still the peacekeeper in his social group, and he still had to keep everyone else in line.

On a Bad Day, he would cancel what plans there were. He would stay in and keep Sherlock distracted, or held, or away from things that might cause him harm. There were Good Days, of course, but the functional days seemed to get overwritten in his mind by the time the next panic started somewhere.

Exhausted and isolated, Lestrade sometimes wondered when he’d snap. He had some holiday time coming up, but he couldn’t very well leave Sherlock alone still.

When he came home to find Sherlock in the mood to just watch him, he couldn’t help himself. He sniped: “what? What is it this time?”

The guilt followed it immediately, even as he turned away to try to compose himself before he faced whatever damage he had just done. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Sherlock’s arms around him. Nearly collapsed against the man when he felt the light kiss to his neck.

"You’re exhausted and frustrated," Sherlock tightened his hold, encouraged Lestrade to rest his weight; "you need a holiday. I’m sure I could borrow Mycroft’s cottage for a weekend."

Lestrade fretted with the idea— there were no cases on, none that weren’t cut-and-dry or time sensitive. There were no events or plans coming up, and nothing he could predict as an emergency that might arise. His thoughts stilled again as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.

"Let me take care of you, Greg."


	14. Chapter 14

Of course they fought. They fought about big things— like Sherlock throwing himself back into his work, about taking on danger and mayhem and the sort of things he should avoid while he recovered. They fought about Sherlock refusing any kind of professional therapy, and the look of absolute horror he had when Lestrade suggested it. Even if it was just the staff psychologist at NSY to check up on Sherlock or refer him to someone else.

They argued about eating habits and sleeping schedules, about cases and injuries. Lestrade was used to Sherlock being stubborn, and he could understand that his refusals and denials could easily be an attempt at regaining control.

But he didn’t understand why Sherlock lashed out.

He knew fear and pain and trauma— he hadn’t suffered directly, but working to catch the scum of humanity exposed you to a lot. And he logically understood the irrationality of it all; how victims acted on instinct to protect themselves or hide. He understood everything about PTSD the little pamphlets said.

But it was different living with someone who didn’t want conventional help. It was different living someone who fell back on old habits of isolation.

Most days, he offered a safe haven for Sherlock to escape to. Other days he was accused of being smothering.

He was still there for every nightmare and Bad Day. But it was getting harder to find the Sherlock he cared about beneath the wounded creature that exhausted itself masquerading as normal.

So they fought.

And after fights, when both men realized that they were stubborn and irrational and in love— and afraid because they were in love— they would talk. After long walks and hours out at a pub to watch a game or meet with friends, after hours puzzling over cases and problems, they would talk.

Lestrade would realize that he couldn’t just fix this. He wanted to, he was good at solving problems, but he couldn’t fix this. He could just treat Sherlock as he wanted to be treated— as if he was still whole and alive and himself.

And then be there when it crashed around him.


	15. Chapter 15

He got stiff when he was cold. It wasn’t a sensation he was used to. Sleeping in an odd position did the damage too. He heard cracks in his wrists and hands when it rained, and his knee sometimes shot tendrils of pain up through his whole leg. But it was his shoulder that was the worst.

Sherlock remembered how he got the injury in vivid detail. Strung up in a ‘cell’ in Serbia, his tormentor had been particularly vicious with a bit of pipe and a blowtorch.

He no longer woke up screaming from the memory because the pain took his breath away. Instead, when the wound acted up— usually when it was warm but humid, or there was a sudden shift in the weather— the pain from it took his entire right arm and extended to his collar.

The first time he woke from it gasping, Lestrade thought he was having a heart attack. There was no way to avoid going to A&E.

Since then, he learnt not to be surprised by the pain. They were resilient little aches that could appear after a long case— running too long had caused him to collapse, his leg useless while he tried to manipulate his knee into working order in an alley. Or they were just sharp, fresh stabs of pain that could take him back to the moment of injury. He learnt to just accept it.

Pain was a part of his life now.

Still, when he woke in a panic, unable to breathe and caught between the memory of pain and the actual sensation of his muscles protesting their very existence, Sherlock was grateful to have Lestrade. Lestrade who would sit him up, careful and soothing, muttering nonsense at him until he was able to breathe again, until the worst of it had passed.

They would sit there for long minutes in bed together, Lestrade gently rubbing his back and holding his hand. And Sherlock just trying to settle himself into some form of functional being.

"You’ll like it even less when you’re old, sunshine." Lestrade would murmur against his neck, careful to track Sherlock’s pulse. "But then you’re expected to be grumpy. We’ll get you a cane. You can shake it at all the young detectives when they take over."

"I want a sword-cane."


	16. Chapter 16

"You’ve been in therapy for the past month," Sherlock observed. They were at a busy cafe, steaming mugs between them on a too-small table. His shoulders relaxed, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, leaning on the table, and took in every detail he could see. He wouldn’t admit it in public, but he had missed John. This John. This happy, casual, relaxed John that joked and laughed and complained about Sherlock’s love of sugary treats.

"Not your usual, though. Someone new."

John could only nod, coffee mug already at his lips. He smiled, though, eyes shining bright as he muttered familiar praise after a sip of coffee.

"And the baby is well."

"Show off."

Sherlock grinned. He certainly missed this John.

John say up a bit straighter, leaned forward to keep their conversation private. Now, after actually understanding the intimacy of a relationship, Sherlock could see why the assumption may have been made before— why it was easy to think that he and John might be more than friends. He had missed getting this close.

"I’m in once a week for anger management," John said. "It’s— ah— well it’s not boring. We chat, I rant, and he gives me some tricks."

"But it helps."

"Yeah, it helps."

"And part of your therapy is acknowledging that you’ve hurt others."

"And buying them coffee." John smiled. "I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was a crap friend, and I don’t expect you to trust me."

Sherlock hummed as he say back, easily making a show of sipping from his coffee and regarding John. He knew John was honest, earnest, but not expecting anything more than a not-terrible time out. The fold of his clothes and the stiffness in his left side suggested that he had spent the last month on the sofa— Mary had accepted the apology, but there were conditions now.

"Am I a condition?"

"A what?"

"A condition to Mary forgiving you. Do I need to report this to her and say that you’ve been… _nice_?”

"What?" John sat back again, gaping as his mind processed the idea. "Christ, Sherlock, no! I’m here for you. Because I’ve been crap to you when you needed me. I’ve…" He took a deep breath, the reasons and explanations clearly rehearsed, but never practiced. "I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt yourself— you’re brilliant, you know— and I did a shitty job at thanking you for protecting me."

"You never thanked me."

"I’m trying to now, you idiot."

"You just said I was brilliant." Sherlock grinned, covering it quickly with his drink.

The look of fond annoyance did nothing to dull the sincerity when John spoke again. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a moment to consider. He had John be sincere before, and it was an easy comparison to judge it now. He could recall (now) how John spoke, sounded, and acted when he wanted to manipulate. A month without John gave Sherlock more than enough time to reflect on past behaviours. And he could recognize a junkie; this was a recovering addict in front of him.

He wondered what would have happened if Lestrade hadn’t given him the second chance when he made his plea seven years ago. If Lestrade hadn’t made the choice to trust him to get clean when that was what he needed most.

"I forgive you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like redemption stories, I like having hope for a character. So this is very much a "fix-it" thing with John for me. I've gotten a lot of anti-John requests lately, and I was just _exhausted_ by them. I still plan to explore parts of John's aggression and darker side. But not here again. Here, Sherlock needs a support network, and people he can trust, and I'm tired of John being a villain.


	17. Chapter 17

Reports started to filter in from around the world. To those watching the news, it appeared that there was unrest between terrorist factions, that allies had started to tear themselves apart. The few names that reached Sherlock were ones that he recognized; pieces of the Web that he hadn’t been able to reach before being recalled. When he looked into the reports himself, he found the last ropes in Moriarty’s Web being razed.

It was with no small satisfaction that he learnt just what happened to the Serbian cell that had caught him. He had demanded the pictures from Mycroft.

Every man he knew to be associated with his torture had been strung up in chains and beaten to a pulp, then left to rot. As a message. A message that had half the world privy to the information in fear.

But Sherlock slept really and truly well for the first time in months.

Then the message appeared. Just as it was broadcast to all of England a few weeks before. It came as a text, at first. Then a hand written note folded on his mantle, already stabbed through with the jackknife. Sherlock opted not to tell Lestrade about them.

Lestrade had noticed the improvement in Sherlock’s mood, all the same.

_Did you miss me, darling?_


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was doing better. There were fewer Bad Days, fewer nightmares, fewer triggers, and fewer panic attacks. He was energetic and lively, the live wire he used to be. His mind set more easily on problems and focused more readily on puzzles. He was eating and sleeping and composing and thinking. He was working.

Lestrade felt that he could breathe a bit more in relief. _This_ was tangible proof that Sherlock was getting better (he hoped). _This_ was proof that Sherlock was doing something to help himself.

In his relief, the thought to ask who Sherlock was talking to slipped his mind. He didn’t want to question this, or doubt it. Sherlock still came home to him, curled up with him, shouted at the television with him (often for different reasons), and was still his.

Lestrade didn’t want to question what had changed.

Or where Sherlock went twice a week.

This wasn’t like his ex. His wife had disengaged at a point, and complained and blamed him, had crumbled under the pressure of a lie bigger than herself. Sherlock was (of course) different. He was happier, and it came out as if he was a great affectionate cat sometimes.

Lestrade didn’t want to question it. He wanted to enjoy it.

Enjoy how his lover didn’t try to hide the scars, or shift away at his touch. Enjoy how Sherlock would drag him up off the sofa during a case to run after some clue. Enjoy how he could touch and kiss and hold Sherlock without fearing a trigger.

It was so much easier not to question the shift.

*_*_*

"Show me?"

Jim held out his hand. He never made a grab for what he wanted, and never demanded without seeking consent. He drew Sherlock to him, kept him entertained and his mind abuzz with puzzles and problems.

The last time they were on a roof, they had faced an endgame.

Now, with a cigarette each between their lips, Jim Moriarty asked for Sherlock’s hand.

He examined the thin wrists, noted the damage done and healed beneath the surface— the wiry strength and dexterity still present despite the abuse. He traced the scar bitten into flesh by old chains, and the slight misalignment where there was a much earlier break. He wondered if Sherlock had panicked when it happened; feared for his music.

Jim liked Sherlock’s music. He was too easy on his former contacts. Too easy on who hurt what was his.

"Tell me about it?"

Jim listened as Sherlock told him. And made no demands other than to hear the story and hold his hand.

Sherlock told Jim. He didn’t think about it as he spoke, just let the story come.

It was therapy. It was freeing. It was like talking to himself.

Jim listened.


	19. Chapter 19

A month had passed before anyone said anything. Before anyone mentioned that Sherlock seemed better, more himself, more invested in the cases presented to him. Not all of them came through Lestrade, of course, most were private contacts asking for help— a theft, a missing lover. Sherlock took cases that didn’t end in death and destruction. He took the cases that affected people the most.

It took a month for someone to mention it.

"You’re doing better." John said over their weekly lunch out (Sherlock didn’t understand why he had to refer to it as ‘lunch’ when it was usually taken just before dinner, but he didn’t question the necessity of time out, away from the work, to talk). "You’ve been talking to someone?"

At Sherlock’s blank look and recognizing the sarcastic remark about to come, John pressed on. “Like therapy, I mean. You know, not keeping everything in. Talking to someone about what happened.”

"Oh. Yes."

"Good. It’s helping."

"Helping?"

"You’re getting better. Back to you."

"I’ve always been me, John."

"You really haven’t." The nerve was obvious, and John jumped to change the topic; not ready to let the weekly outing address more than just the lack of adventure or competence in the general public just yet. "Tell me about your new case."

*_*_*_*

Lestrade was worried. It was part and parcel to who he was. For all his insistence on tough love and only guiding those he cared about towards a path, he tended to fret. He let the worry gnaw at his mind until it gave way to doubts and fears and then proofs that he had to follow up on.

He couldn’t let it get that far with Sherlock again.

"I want to come with you."

"The case is about a missing cat." It was a new case— relevant files freshly printed and spread across the table. It wasn’t the cat that Sherlock was interested in, but the fact that it was a no-breed contract show cat that had never been to a vet, then went missing just before a scheduled neutering operation to fulfill the contract. Sherlock had found others in a similar position. "Hardly the priority of Scotland Yard."

"That’s not what I meant." Lestrade sat, placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. A touch to draw that working mind away from his theories and cases for a few moments. "Can I meet who you’ve been talking to? Just to get some advi—"

"No."

"Sherlock."

"I’m not talking to him any more. You don’t need to meet him."

"I’m not trying to step on your toes here, sunshine. I want to be a part of your recovery."


	20. Chapter 20

"Would you rather I wasn’t real? Just a figment of your imagination, locked up all safe and sound in _here_?”

Sherlock flinched away from the press of Jim’s finger against his forehead. It had been weeks of this— months. These hours long meetings out around London— in the blind spots of the city, in the restaurants and cafés in the tourist traps Sherlock never otherwise went, on the rooftops. They talked. That was it. Just words between them.

Sometimes Jim was playful or angry. Volatile. He’d grab at Sherlock’s coat and demand to know things Sherlock didn’t want to say. He’d laugh when Sherlock would push him away, chase after him when he left, and demand answers all over again.

"Would you rather I was a ghost, Sherlock?"

Then there were days like this. A case closed and dawn on a rooftop.

"Yes."

"It would make it easier to tell Johnny-boy, wouldn’t it." Jim always had a cigarette with him. His eyes would go hard and hostile when Sherlock refused it.

Today Sherlock refused.

"We could run away, you know." Jim said around the cigarette as he searched for his lighter, patting down jacket pockets before he tried again. "Just you and me, away from the rest of the world."

"No."

"Yes, you didn’t fare too well the last time you left England, did you, pet?" The lighter was tossed over the side of the building, smashed on the pavement below. "But we could burn the world, love. No one would hurt you."

"You’re going to leave." Sherlock looked over the city, the Shard a distance away already catching the light struggling to be seen through summer haze. He thought of Lestrade, worrying in bed, waiting for him to come home. Over the past few weeks, Sherlock found that he _liked_ thinking of Lestrade as ‘home’, and the guilt of not being there had started to bite at him— claw into his mind and remind him that Lestrade, _Greg_ , had been so patient and generous with him. That Greg still didn’t question his roaming the city or not coming back for whole nights. He found that his thoughts were filled with Greg more and more often now— always hoping that he could be the good man Greg deserved. “You’re going to leave, and never come back.”

He expected the reaction— the violent, instinctual reaction Jim had every time something he didn’t like and couldn’t change was raised. He hadn’t expected Jim to pounce on him though. He hadn’t expected to be pinned beneath the shorter man, and he froze in shock rather than fight back. The wind was knocked from him as his back hit the concrete of the roof.

"I’m going _nowhere_ , Sherlock Holmes.” The cigarette was lost on the roof already, Jim’s hands fisted in Sherlock’s shirt as he pressed them together, forced control. “I protect you now. You’re _mine_.”


	21. Chapter 21

In the end, he told Mycroft. He allowed himself to be pulled into the office and questioned, recounted his encounters and sessions to the agent placed in charge of finding a way to tame or end Jim Moriarty. He allowed himself to suffer through the lecture and disappointment, and begging for the extra watch now that the threat was known. He suffered through facing his brother as he always did. Mycroft’s disappointment in his actions was nothing new.

In the end, Sherlock did it for Lestrade.

Jim was a part of himself— a mark that he thought had been beaten and cut out of him, crushed on the pavement beneath Bart’s, or left in the shackles that lined a tiny room. Jim was the part that looked forward to— _craved_ the puzzles that came with broken bodies and broken lives left around the city. Jim was the addiction. And Sherlock knew just what an overdose could feel like.

Lestrade had seen him through addictions before. He had seen him relapse and recover and face an overdose when his system was no longer used to his solutions.

He was lectured on the way back to Baker Street— already spotting the new security, the promised sites of new cameras. Mycroft lectured him about being stupid, about being reckless, and foolish, and _sentimental_ about his _playmate_.

Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as the car pulled to a stop. “I’ll protect you now, brother mine.”

The promise echoed the words that spurred Sherlock into sensible action in the first place; that pushed Sherlock into a panic at the realization that he had fallen too far into bad habits. He was out of the car as soon as it stopped, a reply muttered through clenched teeth as his mind cycled the words of control over and over.

"I don’t need your protection."

He did, though. Not for himself, but for John and Mary, because Jim still thought that John was the closest to him. He needed the protection for Lestrade, who could be targeted by a criminal so far beyond his experience that Sherlock didn’t want to consider what that could mean.

The words were a promise of control. A blanket of good intentions. Of ownership. ‘Protect’ had changed meanings in his mind— Moriarty and Mycroft did not _protect_. They controlled, and conquered, and owned. They didn’t mean the kindness they thought it did.

"Sherlock? Hey!" He didn’t know when he got into the flat. Didn’t remember the steps, or the doors, or sliding down the front door until he was sat with his back against the wood. He didn’t notice Lestrade in front of him until he felt the little shake and saw those concerned eyes. "Hey, there you are, sunshine."

He knew Lestrade was checking him over for injury, would see the bruises left in his struggle to get Jim off of him, the redness beneath his collar where he was scratched when Jim gripped his throat, the marks on his knuckles just barely cleaned up at Mycroft’s office. He knew that Lestrade would see these little marks and understand what they were, would have questions and concerns and disappointments.

"Stay, Sherlock." He felt the large hand on his cheek, thumb moving in tiny circles to draw him back from his thoughts. "Stay with me, Sherlock. Don’t get lost now."

Dumbly, Sherlock realized that he was in the midst of a panic attack. It was different than triggered memories. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t breathe, he was lost, and he didn’t know what to do. But he could feel Lestrade close, and he focused on that. He took a deep breath and gripped Lestrade’s hand.

"That’s it. Come on, lad. You’re okay. I’ve got you." Lestrade smiled, and Sherlock saw the question in his eyes— in those kind, kind eyes he didn’t deserve to have on him. The edges of panic returned as he realized that he’d have to tell Lestrade what happened— what he’s done and where he’d been.

There’d be disappointment. Sherlock knew that. But he didn’t think he could handle it from Lestrade. Not now. And it would lead to Lestrade leaving— either in frustration at Sherlock’s actions, or to protect himself until the threat was gone. Maybe (likely) after that too.

What reason would he have to come back.

Sherlock blinked through the fuzzy vision (tears, his mind supplied through the chaos of scenarios and predictions— he was crying), and gripped Lestrade’s hand tighter.

He managed, through choked noises from failed deep breaths; “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Greg.”


	22. Chapter 22

Lestrade left for a week. He had said that he needed to process the information Sherlock laid out about Moriarty still being alive, and in contact. He said he needed to think, away from Sherlock’s influence, about just what had gone wrong enough for Sherlock to think that Moriarty was safe to turn to. He said he needed to work. He promised that he was coming back, that he wouldn’t leave Sherlock (unless it was what Sherlock wanted), and he wouldn’t just abandon what they had. Whatever it actually was.

Lestrade was out of contact for a week.

Not properly out of contact, though. He spoke to John and Mary, and had them check up on Sherlock. He got near-daily calls from Mrs. Hudson telling him that Sherlock had been moping, or manic, or destroying the carpet again. He was only ever just at the Yard, sleeping at his desk or in the break room.

But for seven days, he removed himself from Sherlock’s influence, and started to think.

It would have been longer, but he woke on the sixth day to Sally standing over him with a coffee and handful of pamphlets and business cards. Stretched put as he was on the lumpy sofa that took up the lion’s share of his favourite break room, he could have sworn she was angry with him. So he quietly accepted the coffee and pamphlets and moved to give her space to sit once she had found a coffee (this was the only break room with a decent kettle, though everyone went for the machine and drip pot two floors up) for herself.

"You can afford a hotel, you know."

"And Sherlock would worry if I did. Or track me down."

"So what are you going to do? You can’t keep sleeping here."

"I’ll get a hotel."

Sally frowned— he had seen that particular look before, when she had been confronted on scenes with insensitive witnesses and families who were particularly thick. That look usually came before a good dressing down or her stalking off to calm down before she lost her temper with someone. He started to prepare to face her anger, not quite sure what he’s done this time.

It had been a hard week.

Instead, Sally leaned forward and refused to look at him. Elbows on knees, she focused on the cup of instant coffee in her hands.

"When I was a kid, there was a gang on my street. Nothing big or really violent. We got lucky. They were just kids playing at being big men."

"Sally—"

"A real gang came in. Years later; after I gone to school. They had drugs and cricket bats, and crazed dogs. They patrolled the street to recruit and keep their claim." Sally sighed, taking down that gang had been the first real job she pushed for. Even if she wasn’t on the team that took it down, her vocal pushes for the team to move where and when had been enough to get Lestrade’s attention. It had been enough to know that he wanted her as his right hand. "They left the girls alone, thank god. Just catcalls and drugs when you walked by. But they went after the boys."

"Sally, stop."

"You know what they did to my kid brother, Greg?" He saw her jaw clench. Knew that this was where the soft spot for Sherlock came from. He nodded, he had seen the reports when looking her up to hire her on. "Then you know what happened after? How all his friends left? Joined up with that gang, took off. Left him aside now that he needed a wheelchair."

He also remember how, for the first year of her employment as his sergeant, she spend nearly every cent she could in getting her family somewhere safe. He remembered meeting the sullen lad Sally called her brother, and consoling her after his suicide.

"You need to get him in therapy. That’s what I always told Mum. Tried to get her to listen, tried to get him to talk to me."

"Sherlock doesn’t want to talk."

"Did you ask him?"

"Sally—"

"Did you sit him down and ask?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?" Sally shook her head, right curls that had bee hastily pulled back into a bun slipping loose until she have up and just pulled the tie out and slipped it around a thin wrist. "Whatever you two are fighting about, I guarantee not talking to him is going to do more damage."

"I can’t save him, Sally. Not from himself."

"Try, Greg. Just try." She stood in one fluid movement and dumped the rest of her coffee in the sink. "The freak’s a pain in the ass, and needs to stay put of my crime scenes, but he doesn’t deserve whatever’s gone on. He’s hurt and you need to take care of that."

On day eight, Sherlock came into the office with Lestrade. Sally joined them in the walk to the staffed psychiatrist Lestrade had scheduled to be in, and sat with Lestrade while Sherlock went in alone for an hour to get his referrals.

"He’ll be okay, boss." Sally smiled, taking the pen she had tucked behind an ear as she settled in with paperwork to wait. "You did good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sally. She needs her own show.


	23. Chapter 23

Music therapy worked better than anything else they tried. On bad days, Lestrade would come back to Baker Street to the sight of Sherlock curls around a music player— lost to the world as his mind was dulled by whatever he was listening to. On good days, Sherlock composed— not necessarily uplifting melodies, but proper music he would work at for hours in distraction.

And then, on the very best days— the days Lestrade loved most— Sherlock danced. These came after cases and publications, experiments gone right and successful court cases. Lestrade would come home to music, or be pulled off into whatever dance caught Sherlock’s fancy that day. There were days when he’d teach Sherlock the moves he had in his youth, amused by the away of hips and steady grind to punk beats. He learned to waltz properly at Sherlock’s careful guidance. And sat back to admire the long lines of limbs as Sherlock stretched before practicing what he remembered of ballet.

It was always in the flat, never a studio. Sherlock kept notes to show the therapist who suggested the music and dance. He charted and graphed, and measured his moods while Lestrade watched on, a constant threat and worry lingering that there might be a trigger here or there in the daily mess of life.

But the music helped.

Even on the bad days. Days where Sherlock couldn’t stand the noise and chaos— where his mind translated every melody into something hostile and harsh when it came from a player— music helped if it came from the right source. On the worst days, Lestrade would hold his lover close, and him or sing to him— soft mutterings of lyrics to half-remembered tunes.

He never thought Sherlock remembered that music. He thought Sherlock only liked the sound of his voice or the pitch of the song.

He never thought that, half-asleep after a very good day, Sherlock would curl against him and request a song.

"Stairway to Heaven." Sherlock muttered as he got comfortable, one arm thrown over Lestrade’s chest. "I like that one."

Fingers reaching up to smooth through thick curls, Lestrade would chuckle and oblige the request; the first hum of tune lost in the dark room until Sherlock joined in.


	24. Chapter 24

He refused to keep a ‘journal’. He had a notebook that he used to chart his progress as he saw it, a graph in the front of it and pages filled with notes and estimates. He had pages filled with his own expectations for progress and goals— easily defined, proven, recreated situations to show that he was _better_.

He took to wearing short sleeves around the flat as an experiment. Self-conscious the first few days in front of Lestrade, and frustrated by Mrs. Hudson’s fussing. For the first few days of this experiment, he thought the scars on his arms stood out in stark contrasts against his skin. Rings and stripes of red that had never quite faded acceptably. He would glance them while in the middle of something and think he saw them raw and bloody, as they were when he was first returned to his bother’s care.

He kept notes on them. The marks. His therapist (and he loathed the term) asked to see them, asked to see the notes and expectations he had of himself. Wanted to see how he quantified the issues he faced and the nightmares.

Sherlock refused. He agreed to let Lestrade see the notebook.

Lestrade never said anything. Not when he switched out short sleeves for long when leaving the flat. Not when he disappeared in the night (but was always back before dawn). Not on the bad days when Sherlock pushed him away and threw tantrums and broke down because his expectations of himself were set so much higher than everyone else’s.

Lestrade only said anything— stopped him— when the crushing of the world and his mind could no longer be handled alone, and he would wrap his arms around Lestrade and demand music and words. Make demands for ordered noise to fight of the chaos.

Lestrade only ever uttered reassurances. Praises and amused little scoldings when Sherlock was looking for them. He would kiss and move every scar and call them ‘stripes’ and ‘patterns’— treat them like parts of Sherlock that weren’t ugly or just damage, or signs of other people. He would make notes in the margins of Sherlock’s lists and notes— skew the results of his tests by pointing out the small victories Sherlock achieved rather than measure how close he was to being _better_.

And when they fought, Sherlock talked to Mary about the notebook. She would call him silly and have him hold the baby. She would tell him adventures and stories and all sorts of things that she didn’t tell John. When he fought with Lestrade, Mary called him an idiot and demanded to know what happened.

He expected to be passed off to John. Or given all sorts of advice on how to “fix it”. But she would just call him an idiot, and hand him his goddaughter while she made lunch. She’d go through the notebook while he played with the giggling little girl in the sitting room, calling for her as she sat up on her own or managed up call him “sh” (“She’s not actually talking, Sherlock. She just likes the sound.” “Well, it’s the sound of my name, it counts.”).

When he went back to Baker Street, or got a text with a case, there would be new notes in the margins with Lestrade’s. Notes about how he handled the baby or talked about his work when he was away— about his ‘mission’.

John found the notebook, took one glance, and asked. Sherlock played it off, but watched John closely as the man looked through it. Inevitably, they’d be turned onto a case or suspect or new adventure before it could be discussed.

A week after he first saw Sherlock’s little notebook, John showed off his own. Lists and lists of what was good in his life, notes about Mary and the baby, and Sherlock. They swapped and filled the pages with post-it notes like John’s case books and little reminders for his writing. Little comments and jokes. Sherlock found them when he visited Mary once, and she told him that John had been better— used them to calm down when he was frustrated.

Sherlock kept the notes from John where he put them in the notebook. They were necessary variables on his data.

There was a page he tore out, once. It had been blank, near the end of the little notebook. It followed his theories on what had happened to Moriarty— notes to pass on to Mycroft.

_You’re not all right, pet._

He couldn’t bring himself to burn the notebook— to destroy all the little notes contributed. The high expectation crossed out by more realistic ones from Lestrade. The little notes and pages of stories from Mary and silly banter from John. The scribbling a across the grab from the baby.

He couldn’t start again.

He tore out the page and burned it. Texted Mycroft and refocused on his work to calm himself. He kept an eye for the increase in surveillance, and the new team being placed to watch them. He told Lestrade.

Sherlock never actually filled the notebook. He tucked it away when the nightmares became less pressing and when the baby started tracing the scars on his arms and wrists in wonder (never recoiling). He tucked compositions into it as proof of his progress, and added John’s notes throughout. He lost interest in the charts and guides he set for himself in favour of cases with John, and lunches out with Mary. He went days without writing down a setback or step forward because he and Lestrade had met John and Mary for dinner, and there was planning to do to make sure Lestrade looked presentable. He stopped noting the nightmares he had, because he’d wake to Lestrade soothing him with soft words and careful touches, and they’d fade by morning.

He’d take it out to write new notes, and get distracted by a case file, or correct Lestrade’s reports for him.

There were still days when he was frustrated and lost. His patience for the seemingly endless list of triggers gone and a sulk not far behind. Days where music and Lestrade, and all the support he had built would be useless, and he needed to be talked down— Lestrade’s large hand over his eyes as they counted out breaths. Days where he felt like he had just been pulled out of his mission, or the threat of Moriarty still lingered as strongly as the draw of him.

There were days when there was no progress at all. And those were the days Lestrade would take out the notebook and go through it with Sherlock, an arm around his shoulders to keep him from squirming away.

"You’re fine, sunshine. You’re fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm actually finished this.


End file.
